Pileup
by Sila Ninque
Summary: When Dean gets hurt on the job, Sam decides that a bit of downtime would be good for both of them. He hadn't counted on finding a mess of hauntings to untangle during their vacation.
1. Chapter 1

Hello, everyone! This is my first _Supernatural_ fic, though I've got several NUMB3RS ones up right now, which are giving me lots and lots of headaches. I needed to take a break and work on something a little different, and here it is. All places and names ('cept for the ones I don't own and the state of PA) are fictional.

**Summary**: After a poltergeist leaves Dean on the mend, Sam decides it's time they both took a bit of a break--and, of course, he picks one of the most haunted spots in Pennsylvania.

**Disclaimer**: I, like the many other female followers of this show, wish eternally to own both of the Winchester brothers, though I'd settle for just Sam. Alas, I do NOT own them, and I am making nothing off of this story except for a few hours of personal amusement. Please don't sue me--I'm already really broke.

Pileup, Chapter 1

"This sucks."

"It's a safe place to stay while you recuperate, Dean." Sam replied patiently, switching off the Impala's engine and turning in his seat to retrieve Dean's crutches.

"Didn't you hear me?"

"I heard you. The first twenty times." Sam sighed and tried to keep his patience. His brother was the hot-headed one. Sam was dependable, tolerant, and steady. He wasn't sure how much longer that was going to last, though. He climbed from the car, went around to the passenger's side and, ignoring his brother's protests, pulled Dean to his feet and handed him the crutches.

After a run-in with an unusually violent poltergeist, which left win-or-die-trying Dean with a severely sprained left ankle and a set of cracked and taped ribs, Sam knew that it was time for him to be the level-headed Winchester and insist that his brother get some much-needed rest, despite his vehement protesting that he needed no care and that they should just get back on the road.

And Dean hadn't shut up since.

They had rented one in a series of cabins that sat at the edge of a serene wooded lake, explaining that they'd had an accident while hiking, despite the frigid February air, and that Dean needed some down time. The man on the phone had been very understanding and promised that as long as fifty dollars per week--cash only--appeared under the door of his own home, Dean and Sam had the place to themselves for as long as they liked.

"What do you want to eat?" Sam asked, helping his brother stretch out on the couch and forcing himself to ignore Dean's hiss of pain.

"What is there?"

"Leftover doughnuts. Some chips. Canned stuff." Sam shrugged. "You know how light we travel."

"Do we have any soup left? Something hot sounds really good."

"Uh…" Sam rummaged through the canvas bag he'd brought in from the car. "Yeah. Chicken noodle."

"Good 'nough." He sniffed. "This couch smells." He said cheerily.

"Sorry…no one's been here in months. It's going to smell kind of weird in here." Sam chuckled.

"…This sucks."

Dean _hated _to be fussed over. He hated being hurt. But most of all, he hated being reliant.

Relying on anyone, even his baby brother, was simply _not _in his nature. He was independent, level-headed, and easygoing. He rolled with the punches; he took what came at him. But, he admitted to himself, perhaps even the invincible Dean Winchester needed some down time.

But that didn't mean he was going to make it easy on Sam. If the younger Winchester insisted on taking care of him, Dean was at least going to get some amusement out of the situation.

"Hey, Sam." He pushed up on his elbows, regretting the action as soon as it sent jolts through his ribcage.

"Yeah?" His brother glanced up from where he'd just sat down, paperback book in hand.

"Can you grab me a beer?" He asked sweetly.

With a sigh, Sam complied. The moment he sat again, however, an evil smile spread over Dean's face. It was concealed from his little brother by the spine of Sam's book, which he had just broken open again.

"Hey, Sam?"

----------------------------------------------------

Three days later, Sam was ready to scream. Despite his greatest efforts, Dean refused to be consoled; instead choosing to endlessly list off places they should've been going or things they should've been working on. On Sam's part, he continually fussed over his brother, making sure to follow the doctor's orders (despite Dean's vehement proclamation that he could do it himself) and change the taping on his brother's ribs and check his ankle.

The walls seemed to continue to close in on both of them, and, finally, Sam could take it no more.

"I'm going for a walk." He said suddenly, tossing down the paperback book he'd been reading.

Dean looked up from the fuzzy-pictured TV, surprised by the outburst. "To where?"

He shrugged. "Around."

"'Kay. Be back by dinner, don't get lost." He teased, returning his gaze to the television.

Sam rolled his eyes, pulled his coat around himself, and moved to the door.

"Seriously, Sam. If I have to get off this couch and come looking for you, I'll kick your sorry--"

"Got it, Dean." With that, the younger Winchester stepped out into the blustery February afternoon.

It wasn't too bad out, he noticed. Warm, in fact, for the middle of nowhere in February. Pennsylvania sure had some unpredictable weather. Glancing at the thermometer thumbtacked to the weathered log wall, he realized that the temperature was nearing fifty.

Jacket open, he took off over a small crest, and within minutes, he'd lost sight of the cabin. A gentle breeze stirred his wavy hair into his eyes, and he brushed it away impatiently, threading his way through the trees along a dirt road that obviously hadn't been used in years, judging by the saplings as big as his arm growing from the middle of it. It felt wonderful to get out of that cramped, stuffy cabin.

He loved his brother. He really did. But sometimes--just sometimes--he liked to pretend that he really _was_ on a road trip, and that soon enough, he'd be heading back to college: getting away from this stress, this never knowing what was happening, never knowing which mistake they made might be their last. Lapsing into a thoughtful haze, Sam continued along, taking pleasure in the crackling of leaves and twigs beneath his feet.

He was surprised to realize that even those wishful times were becoming fewer and farther between. He was falling into a pattern that involved exactly what he'd been so desperate to escape, and he was actually okay with it. Spending time with Dean wasn't exactly what he'd expected in life, but it certainly wasn't something he couldn't get used to. Maybe he could learn to enjoy this, after all.

He suddenly realized something else, too. While he'd been lost in thought, he had deviated from the road, and his thoughts were no longer the only things lost. Cursing mentally, he spun on his heel. Relief washed over him as he realized that the ground beneath his feet was muddy…He'd just follow his own footprints back to the path.

That worked fine, for the first few steps. Then the prints disappeared, swallowed by the muddy ground, and Sam was just as lost as he'd been a moment ago.

Just as he was getting more than a little frustrated, he glanced to his right…and his heart stopped.

Not ten feet from him stood a girl. Young, probably no more than thirteen, she wore thick boots and a long black overcoat. Earbud headphones were pushed into her ears, the cords held in place by a hand-knitted bright purple scarf knotted around her neck. Wavy brown hair blew into her face, but she made no move to brush it away. In fact, she made no move at all. She stood silently, gazing at him, hands pushed into the pockets of her coat.

"Hi." He said uncertainly. "Um…can you tell me the way back to the road?"

Nothing. She didn't move, didn't breathe. Her grey-green eyes were wide, glassy, and unblinking.

"Or the way back to the camp? I'm not from around here." He tried again.

No response. A chill raced down Sam's spine as he realized exactly what it was he was looking at. This child was most definitely _not _of the living.

Cursing his stupidity, he backed away. One of the top three Winchester Rules--never go anywhere unprepared. He'd been dumb enough to do just that, and he might have to pay the price.

The girl, however, didn't appear to be very interested in harming him. Instead, she simply turned and began walking off through the trees. With no other alternative, Sam followed, keeping a safe distance between her and him.

A few minutes later, as he topped a small hill, she gave him a glance over her shoulder, and he drew up next to her and saw, with a pang of relief, the cabin below him.

"Thank you." He said, but she had already moved past him and was starting along a path parallel to the cabin. She stopped and looked over her shoulder at him, then continued. Mildly creeped out, he hurried down the hill and let himself into the tiny chalet.

"Geez, you've been gone _forever._" Dean said. His younger brother had a retort forming on his tongue when he realized that Dean's voice was serious—and a shade worried.

"How long?"

"Almost five hours."

"What?" Sam's eyes widened, and he glanced at the beat-up vintage Coca-Cola clock above the couch, which had obviously stopped working years ago. "Are you sure?"

"'Course I'm sure." Dean's head lifted from the pillow. "You okay?"

He paused. "I'm not sure. You'll never believe what happened to me."

"Make a believer outta me, kid." He flopped back to his previous position and clicked off the television, then settled his crossed arms over his chest as Sam sank down on the couch's arm.

"I got lost, and--"

"I'm not supposed to believe that?"

"I'm not _finished _yet, Dean. I got lost, and while I'm standing there trying to figure out how to get back here, I see this girl. Little girl, probably eleven or twelve."

"A ghost." It was a statement, not a question.

"Yeah." Sam thought back to the chilling, vacant look in the child's eyes and shuddered. "She looked so sad."

"You didn't have your gun." It was a statement, not a question.

Sam avoided his brother's eyes. "I didn't need it."

"What if you had? _Dammit,_ Sam! You've gotta think about stuff like this! I'm not always going to be around to save you, you know."

"I'm sorry. I was stressed out." Sam explained, trying to keep his temper under control.

"That's not an excuse."

"God, do you have any idea how much you sound like Dad right now?" He snapped.

"At least one of us does."

Sam spun on his heel and stormed from the room before he could say anything else. Dean could get under his skin like no one else.

He couldn't stop the yelp of surprise as he reached the small space that separated the two bedrooms and the bathroom. There, beneath the unlit overhead light, stood the girl from the forest, looking angry now. She was dressed differently this time, wearing nothing but a long, plain white cotton gown that danced around her bare feet. There was a set to her jaw that hadn't been there before and a spark in her eyes that read murderously.

"Sam?" Dean called from the living room. Sam stood rooted to the spot, unable to answer. "Sam?"

When no response came, he began to lose patience. "Sam, come on, I know you're mad at me, but would you at least let me know you're--"

His words were cut off by Sam's strangled cry. He'd never know how he managed it, but somehow Dean was on his feet, rock-salt-loaded gun in hand, moving down the dark hallway. The sight that met him made his blood run cold.

Sam was kneeling on the floor, his face held in the hands of a child who was on her feet, forcing him to look up at her. Their eyes were locked in a silent battle of some sort, and apparently, she was winning.

Taking careful aim, Dean fired the gun (straight and true, he noticed, even though he was shooting with his left hand, his right occupied with a crutch) and the girl screeched as she was thrown against the wall, where she slid to the floor and then through it, out of sight. Dean dropped the gun and the crutch and hurried to his brother's side, where he knelt and took Sam's face gently in his hands.

"Sam! Sammy, you okay? Say something!"

The younger man looked up at him, ignoring the protest that sprang to mind at the sound of the old nickname. "Thanks."

"Sure." Adrenaline faded, and Dean found himself sliding fully to the ground, holding a hand to his taped ribcage. He'd be feeling that one tomorrow morning.

Instantly, Sam was helping him back to his feet and into bed. "I don't think she'll bother us again tonight. Get some rest."

"What was she doing to you, Sam?"

"Nothing." Something about the way his eyes flashed told Dean that he was lying.

"Sam…"

"I didn't get all of it before you cut her off."

"Oh. Should I be sorry?"

"No…it hurt. I'm glad you stopped her."

"Maybe you should stay in here tonight. It would be a lot easier to save you if I didn't have to get out of bed."

Sam chuckled. "I'll be fine, Dean."

"If you say so." He was reluctant to let Sam go, but he wasn't about to say that. Instead, he watched him make his way out the door into the hall. A moment later, the _click_ of a latching door reverberated in the silence. Dean tried to push the unease out of his mind and settled back, instead, on his pillow. Yawning, he forced his body to relax, one sore muscle at a time, and was asleep shortly.

---------------------------

Yay--at least I can say that I've put something up this week. Writer's block has got me tearing my hair out by the roots. I haven't had it this bad in _years_. It's painful.

Okay, thanks to all who read and I hope you'll stick with me until the end! It will be a fun ride!

Love to all,

Sila


	2. Chapter 2

Hi, everybody! Wow, I can't say thank-you enough for the wonderful response to Chapter1. I wasn't expecting anything like that. I'm soooo glad everyone is liking it so well. I tried to get a personal response out to each of my reviewers, but if I missed someone, let me know and I'll get on that right away. Anyway,here's chapter 2 of Pileup, and it's a LOOONG one; six and a half pages, according to Word. Eek. Hopefully, it's interesting, though.

**Disclaimer**: No, I don't own them—the characters or the plotline. Sucks to be me. Now onward for what you really came for.

_Pileup, Chapter 2_

Unfortunately, across the hall, Sam was having much less luck. He tossed and turned, the blankets wrapping tightly around his torso and legs. Finally, he gave up, rose, and padded down the musty hall to the kitchen. He retrieved a dusty glass from the cupboard, filled it, and took a long drink. He spun the glass in his hand, watching the light from the bulb above the sink refract in the water and send rainbows darting playfully across the floor.

"Sam-_my_…." A child's voice, playful and sing-song, split the silence. It was taunting and amused, obviously enjoying the surprised look her voice provoked.

The glass slipped from his hand, hit the counter, and shattered. Water and glass shards rained down on his feet.

"Sam-_my_…."

He spun, hand automatically flying for his gun, which, of course, wasn't tucked down the back of his pajama pants. A shard of glass sliced cleanly across the pad of his foot, and he released a hiss of pain involuntarily.

A giggle erupted from the empty shadows behind him, and disembodied footsteps darted from the corner by the garbage can to the doorway and then back again. Keeping his eyes warily on the room, he began to edge his way into the living room, trailing blood as he moved. He fumbled through the bag at the foot of the broken-down couch, looking for his gun.

It was gone.

"Sam…" The girlish voice was back.

He whirled around, scanning the emptiness. The cocking of a gun alerted him to a presence behind him. Slowly, painfully slowly, he turned again. _Dean'll kill me for this…_

There she was. She had Sam's gun in her tiny hands, leveled at his head.

Instinct kicked in, and he began to back away, even though they were already well across the room from each other.

She didn't blink, cocking the gun in a warning that was all too clear.

He froze instantly. "What do you want?"

"You didn't care an hour ago." She replied. The playfulness was gone from her voice, and it was dry, raspy, hollow…dead.

"Listen, Dean didn't--"

"He just _shot _me, like I'm some kind of animal! No warning, no nothing! With salt, no less. He's smart." She gave the weapon in her hands another thoughtful look. "Is that what's in here? Rock salt?"

Deciding not to make her angrier, Sam opted to answer her question. "Yeah. What's your name?"

Surprise made her eyes widen, and her finger tightened on the trigger, a sign he didn't miss. "Christina."

"Christina what?"

"Carlyle. "

He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself as much as her, "We can help you. I _want_ to help you."

She studied him coldly, looking much older than any child should. She didn't answer him. Her form was fading—the energy required to hold corporeal objects, like a gun, was clearly becoming too much of a strain on her.

"Because I don't want you to be angry any more. I don't want you to hurt. I can help you."

"Maybe we don't want your help." Snapping sharply back into focus as rage filled her tiny frame, she found the strength to raise the gun again.

"We?" He repeated, his curiosity piqued. A character fault--even with a gun pointed at his face, Sam couldn't quit asking questions.

"I mean I. Maybe _I_ don't want your help."

"Maybe you do." He replied softly.

"No, I _don't_!" She shrieked, and he, seeing the danger signs, turned away from her. As he moved, the gun fired, and he caught the load of salt in his left shoulder. Christina threw the gun to the floor, turned, and ran.

Sam stood stone-still in pained shock for several minutes before he gently ran a hand over series of tiny bloody holes in his tee shirt, wincing as it touched the painful welts, and headed down the hall to the bathroom mirror.

As he passed his brother's door, he paused in sudden realization. Dean wasn't a heavy sleeper--a gunshot should surely have woken him. Concerned, Sam eased the door open, wincing at the creak of the hinges. A shaft of hall light fell on his brother's peaceful face, fast asleep, and Sam gave him a curious glance. _What the hell is going on here?_

Stepping hesitantly into the room, he edged his way to Dean's bedside and gazed down at him, taking in the gentle rise and fall of his older brother's ribs beneath what seemed like miles of gauze and tape. He couldn't believe it-- Dean _had_ slept through the shattering glass, the conversation, the gunshot. All of it.

Shaking his head in disbelief, he slipped from the room and made his way to the bathroom. There he cleaned a circle in the dust that coated the mirror's surface, pulled his shirt slowly and stiffly over his head with a number of muffled curses, and leaned over to examine the peppering of tiny, bleeding spots and the colorings of bruises that marked where the pebbles of salt had struck him.

A reflection over his shoulder caught his eye, and he stifled a groan at the sight.

A boy, no more than eleven, stood behind him. He wore a Vikings tee shirt under a scruffy black parka jacket and a pair of jeans that seemed to be missing the knees. His feet were laced into bright red sneakers. He was deathly, eerily pale, and his hair was dirty and sticking up in odd places--much like Sam's used to as a child. Light brown eyes, the color of creamed coffee, were wide and glazed-over.

Without taking his eyes from the mirror, Sam whispered to him. "Hi. Who are you?"

No response.

"My name is Sam."

Nothing.

"Can I help you with something?" He asked, trying to fill the silence. The boy only shook his head and vanished.

Sam sighed. "Freaky." The one word that could easily sum up his entire life.

* * *

"What the hell happened to you?" Dean asked, eyes wide, as his brother appeared in the doorway, moving stiffly and carrying a tray loaded with two breakfasts in his right hand. Sam cursed to himself—how did Dean _always_ know? Always!

"What do you mean, what happened to me? Nothing. I'm fine." Sam replied, kicking the door closed behind him.

"Sam." Dean struggled into a sitting position and gave him a "_don't-screw-with-me-kid" _look.

"Seriously, Dean."

"Take off your shirt. You're holding your arm funny, and I want to know why."

"Dean, I'm fine."

"Sam!"

"All right, all right!" He dropped the tray to the nightstand and slowly pulled his shirt off. "This is why you don't let kids play with guns." He replied dryly, knowing it looked even worse than it felt.

"Shit, Sammy. Let me look."

"It's fine, Dean, really." He replied, "And don't call me Sa--"

"Sam." Dean cut over him, giving him the patented, '_I'm-your-big-brother-and-you-will-listen-to-me' _Look.

He sighed, set down the tray, and sat down next to his brother. Dean leaned over him as he examined the freckled marks on his little brother's shoulder and the varying degrees of bruises accompanying it.

"We gotta get out of here, Sam. This isn't safe." He finally said, satisfied that Sam would be just fine.

"They're just kids, Dean. They--" The younger Winchester began, pulling his tee shirt back over his head.

"Wha--wait. They?"

Sam sighed. "I…last night, I saw another one. A boy. Little, younger than Christina, even. Maybe--"

"Wait, wait." Dean held up a hand in a stop-before-my-head-explodes gesture. "Who's _Christina_?"

"That's the girl."

"The ghost? You _named _her?"

"No, that's her name. She told me."

"You talked to her? You're not supposed to--"

"She had a gun, Dean. What was I supposed to do?"

"Get another one, maybe?"

"She had one, one was under your pillow. We keep two in the overnight bag. You do the math."

Dean sighed. "Fine." He finally relented. "So what did she want?"

"Mostly? To complain about you."

"Me?"

"You shot her."

"She was hurting you!" He said defensively.

"I don't think she knew that."

Dean heaved another sigh. "This boy, then. What's his deal?" He asked, changing the subject and turning the conversation around full circle.

"He didn't talk. He just kept staring…Dean. Dean, look." Sam gestured to the door, which was slowly creeping open.

A child, another boy, padded into the room. Dressed in long green shorts cinched around his waist and a bright blue tank top and toting a blanket in his right fist, thumb in his mouth, he stopped at the sight of the two adults.

"Hey, there." Dean said softly, smiling at the boy. "What's your name?"

"He won't talk." The door opened wider, revealing Christina standing behind it, still in the creepy white gown. Her jaw was set, her eyes were cold, but she looked less mutinous. "His name is Tommy."

"Hi, Tommy." Sam said, cutting off anything Dean might have started about the gunfight the night before, but he was looking at Christina. "Why doesn't he talk?"

Christina refused to answer, picking Tommy up and settling him on her hip before ambling off down the hall. "Just go." Came her ghostly command, a hoarse and dry whisper. "We don't need you here."

"You heard the girl." Dean said.

"Dean."

"Right. Bad call. All right, all right. What do we do, O Wise College Man?"

"What we always do."

Dean heaved a long, weight-of-the-world sigh, more pronounced than Sam would've thought possible from someone with damaged ribs, "To the library. After breakfast."

* * *

"This sucks." Dean groaned as Sam held the door open for him.

"Quit sulking." He replied, glancing up and studying the room that lay behind the inner doors. His eyes alit on the librarian, "Besides, your mood is about to pick up considerably."

"How do you know that?" Dean, who was still trying to make it through the door and hadn't yet seen inside, demanded.

"Trust me."

"Okay, ESP boy."

_Three, two, one…_ Sam thought smugly. Dean moved ahead of him through the inner doors.

"Hello." The older Winchester said under his breath.

Sam swallowed a laugh as the beauty behind the desk glanced up from her work. Her eyes lit up at the sight of the two coming into her library. "Hey."

"Hi." Sam said smoothly.

"Hey." Dean grinned. "I'm Dean, this is Sam."

"My name is Sara." She said suavely, returning Dean's flirtatious smile with a killer confident one. Her long brunette hair was tied back from her pretty face, and, as she came around the desk to greet them, Sam smiled at the way Dean's eyes lit up at the sight of her denim-clad legs. "What brings you two to the library on a day like this?"

"We need some information." Sam said, trying to speed the process along. Dean gave him a dark look that clearly read '_what-are-you-doing,-idiot-that's-not-how-you-flirt-with-a-cute-librarian'_, which he countered with a _let-me-get-settled-and-then-she's-all-yours _shrug. "Anything you might have on the old camp on Lake Cerulean."

"Eesh, there's not a lot." She said. "Not much has ever gone on in that area. It's been woods for as long as records have stood. You can try the periodicals, though." She said, offering Dean a hand (which he took, though the assistance clearly wasn't necessary) as he sank into one of the overstuffed chairs by the window. "I'll duck into the back and get them."

"That would be great." He smiled at her, and she returned it, though without the predatory gleam in her eye that had accompanied the smile she'd given Dean. She disappeared a second later into a back room, Dean's wide green eyes following her every move.

"So…" Sam tried to steer his brother back into the realm of the hunter, "There isn't much on the camp. Do you think that means something?"

Dean slid easily back into the role, now that his pretty distraction was gone. "Not much information, but something is _definitely _going on there. We've seen three spirits so far--really active spirits--and I think that that--"

He was cut off by Sara's return, her arms loaded down with boxes of microfilm, and Dean grinned at his brother, who rolled his eyes in a not-so-subtle "you're an idiot" way.

"You need help threading these?" She asked, offering the boxes to Sam, who rose to take them from her hands.

"Nope. Libraries I get." He replied with a friendly smile.

"Great. Microfilm machines are through that door along the wall. Copies are ten cents a page, they print out here behind the desk. Let me know if you need anything."

"Sure. Thanks." With that, he moved across the room and through the door to the microfilm lab.

When Sam was safely settled with his machines, Dean turned to the young librarian. "I have some questions that you might be able to answer…but I should really help him," He gestured to Sam's back, which was visible through the microfilm lab's doorway, "right now. What do you say we discuss it over drinks tonight?"

She gave him a smirk. "I'd say fine. There's a bar right down the street called Mikey's. I'll meet you there at, say, eight?"

"Perfect."

* * *

Well, that was certainly long. Sorry about that, I tend to get a little carried away sometimes. Next chapter won't be quite so long or dramatic, but it's going to pick back up and enter a whole new realm of drama pretty soon. And, if anybody's wondering WHY Dean didn't wake up when the gun went off, well...just hang on. It'll all be explained later, I promise.

Thanks for reading, thanks for your great reviews of chapter 1, and I hope to see you all again in chapter 3!

All my love,  
Sila


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: I got several replies to Sara's characterlast chapter, and I realized that I'd forgotten--most of you don't know me like those in the Numb3rs fic section. I'm new here! So to fill you in, I have a strict no-messing-with-the-characters policy: There will NEVER be a Mary-Sue-ish "Dean falls in love with girl and leaves hunting and Sam behind to be with her" scenario from me. I swear. So, while we will see Sara again one more short time before the end of this fic, this chapter is really the only time we'll have her around. No worries there.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own it. I still wish I did, though.

**Pileup, Chapter 3**

Dean looked at the piles of papers surrounding his little brother. "Sam, we've been at this for seven hours. You need a break. Sara won't mind if you come along. You could interview some people at the bar or…something." Dean trailed off when he realized that he didn't have a speck of Sam's attention.

"You go, Dean." Sam replied without looking up from his task. "Have fun. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

Dean snorted, "Yeah, right." He clapped Sam, who was seated cross-legged on the floor in the center of the papers, on the shoulder. "See you in the morning, little bro."

"Pretty confident, aren't you?"

With a final superior smirk, Dean hobbled from the cabin, making sure that the door latched firmly behind him, which locked Sam safely inside. Then he made his way down the dirt path to the roadway, where his car waited patiently.

* * *

"Hey, there, gorgeous. How 'bout I buy you a drink?" 

Sara turned with a smile, meeting Dean's gaze. "I don't usually date gimps, but I'll make an exception for you." She returned.

"Great. How about you get it, though? I have _got _to sit down."

She snickered. "Sure. What's your drink?"

"Rum and coke." He said, sliding a twenty to her before turning away to find a booth. When he managed to find a vacant one, he sank into it gratefully.

He watched her sashay to the bar, lean over it, and bark her order to the tender. Within a few minutes, their request had been filled and Sara had returned, sliding into the vacant spot and passing his glass across the table to him. "Here." She said, taking a long sip of her own drink.

They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes. Then Sara said conversationally, "So, Dean, what's the deal with you?"

"The…deal?" He repeated. "What do you mean?"

"You and the guy you came into the library with. What's your deal?"

"That guy? Oh! Sam! He's my brother." Dean smiled into his drink. "Good kid. So…" with a carefully-practiced air, he turned the conversation from himself to the reason for their "visit". "What can you tell me about this camp on the lake?"

She smiled coyly and closed her lips around her straw. "So that's it? I'm just a fountain of information?"

"Of course not." To reinforce this statement, he let his eyes linger on her lips, still closed around the straw, and the drink flowing through them. "I'm just curious."

She tossed her head, flipping her bangs out of her eyes, and studied him for a long moment. "You're really not going to give up on this, are you?"

"No."

She sighed and averted her gaze. Dean felt that instinctive tingle that told him he was getting close--Sara knew something that wasn't in the papers or the history books, and he _was_ going to find it. He was good at that. "Well…"

"Well, what?" He leaned forward, an innocent traveler interested in the area's interesting lore, nothing more. At least, he _hoped _that that was the impression he was pulling off.

She seemed to debate for a moment longer, hesitated, then decided to tell him, "A few years ago, there was…an incident."

"An incident?"

"It was low-key, kept very quiet. All of it." She leaned forward conspiratorially. "In 2001, I think, there was a huge house fire on that property. It's twenty-eight acres, and the house was set in the center. The only way to get to it was this long dirt road, and it had been a rainy spring. By the time firefighters got back through the mud, the house had burned to the ground--the fire was already almost out."

"Wow. Who was it?"

"Family's name was Carlyle. There was a mother, a father, and two girls inside."

"And all of them died?"

"They think so. The house was burned horribly; worse than anything anyone had ever seen before. There weren't any bodies to find. Everything had burned to nothingness. Ash."

"So they don't _know _that the family died?"

"Oh, they died." She said, not a shade of doubt in her voice, "Hardly anybody will go near that property. About a year after the family died, Reed Johnson bought the land and tried to build that hunting and fishing camp on it. It did really well for the first few months, and then, suddenly, everyone stopped coming. People began to pack up and leave in the middle of the night, no explanation. Others demanded their money back. He finally had to shut it down and use it only for private business and the occasional overly-brave travelers. And then…then, in early 2003, the disappearances started."

"The kids." He murmured.

"Sorry?" She leaned closer.

"Nothing. Disappearances?"

"Yeah. Kids started disappearing from everywhere--Burkett, Mayville, Staybrook. All ages, all races, all walks of life. It was terrifying."

"None of them were found?"

"One actually came _back, _just a few months ago. She's spending a lot of her time in the nuthouse, though. Her name's..." She rolled her eyes to the ceiling, as though she might find the child's name there, "Evelyn McFarland; she's fifteen now. She disappeared last summer and they found her walking along Route 36 in November." Sara, apparently finished with her story, sighed contentedly and leaned back in the cracked red leather booth. "She's all kinds of mad." She said dismissively, waving her hand at Evelyn's apparent condition.

He nodded, thinking that Evelyn McFarland probably wasn't as mad as Sara was painting her to be. "And they think the disappearances are linked to the fire?"

"Some people do." She said with a one-shouldered shrug. "The crazies that believe in that ghost crap. I don't." She seemed a bit irritated about the questioning--it obviously wasn't turning into the night she'd hoped for. Dean offered her an apologetic smile, but plunged ahead. The hunt came first. There would be time for Sara later.

Finally, when he was sure he'd gotten all the information he'd need, Dean rose and gave her THAT smile--the one that always had its desired effects on a woman. "I'm sorry. I swear, I'm done now. I tend to get a bit…carried away when it comes to ghost stories. Let me take a quick break and we'll get back to our night." He promised.

She settled back in the booth with a satisfied smile, and he could almost hear the "_that's better"_ running through her mind. "Sure."

So excused, Dean made his way down the hall to the bathrooms, away from the pounding music, the shouting, the cigarette smoke, to call his brother.

"Prepare to be amazed." He announced when Sam picked up.

"Oh, really?" The younger Winchester sounded skeptical.

"Really. I found out who owns the land, what happened there, and I think I even know what's up with our ghostly Brady bunch."

"Land's owned by a Reed Johnson, owned before that by the Carlyle family. He decided to sell it a few years ago."

There was a long pause as Dean digested what he'd just heard. Then, "How do you always _do_ that?"

"There's a reason they call me the smart one, Dean."

"Because 'the cute one' was already taken?" He shot back. "_But_, Oh-Smart-One" He emphasized the word, internally delighted that he still had more information than his research-obsessed brother, "What you _don't_ know is that the Carlyle family all died in a house fire. In 2001." He paused.

"…oh." There was a rustling of papers, then Sam cleared his throat uncomfortably, "Dean…Christina, that ghost? Her last name was Carlyle."

"It was?"

"Yeah." A long pause. "Well, we may have just blown _that _part of the mystery open, anyway." He said thoughtfully.

But Dean wasn't finished yet. "_And_," He said, growing more pleased by the moment, "Just after Johnson's camp went under, children started to disappear. I think that's where our little ghost-daycare came from. Now," He said into Sam's surprised silence, "You go back to your papers. I," He emphasized the word haughtily, "am going to go back to my _date_."

"I'm impressed." Sam said finally.

"As well you should be. You think you're the only one that can manage this information stuff?"

"I know you can." Sam said distractedly. Dean could hear him shuffling papers in the background.

"Whatever, kid. Return to the realm of the geek." He slapped the phone closed and dropped it back into his pocket before elbowing his way through the surprisingly dense crowd back to the ratty corner booth. "Now, where were we?" He asked Sara cheerfully.

She leaned across the table, eyes dancing coyly. "You tell me." She challenged.

As the night wore on, Sara finished drink after drink, but Dean quit early, not even finishing his first, keeping his eyes on the tables in the far corner and calculating how to get some pool hustling in before the night ended.

Two hours after his phone call to Sam, he was leaning over to talk to Sara when something over his date's shoulder caught his eye--a flash of glitter. In the shadows beside the gleaming wooden bar stood a little blonde girl wearing a fancy, shimmering white gown, white tights, and white mary-janes. Leaning to the left to study the child, he nudged Sara's bare arm, "Hey, Sara, who's that?"

"Who's who?" She glanced over her shoulder expectantly.

"That girl. The kid next to the bar."

"_What_ kid?" Grey-green eyes scanned the room's occupants. "Dean, maybe you should switch to water."

"No, no, I'm fine." He neglected to tell her that he'd taken exactly four sips of his drink all night. He was far from inebriated. "I'll be right back." He promised. He rose, tucked the crutches under his arms again, and threaded his way through the throng.

He kept his eyes on the child, afraid that if he blinked, she would disappear. When he finally reached her, Dean leaned down to make sure that she could hear him over the music. "Hi."

She blinked at him, blue eyes wide.

"What are you doing here?" He asked, glancing around. No parents were in sight, and she looked awfully dressed up. Something was amiss, and he had a bad feeling that he knew exactly what it was.

His neck cracked as he snapped his head around at the sound of her response, "He needs you."

"What?" He leaned down farther, unsure if he'd heard right, and massaged the fresh sore spot on the back of his neck.

"He's calling for you. You have to come."

"Who?" He hissed, more harshly than he'd intended. She backed away. "I'm sorry." He said sincerely, eyes softening. "Who needs me?"

"Him. Sam."

His heart tightened, and, in that moment, he knew for certain that he was looking at another one of the ghosts that had somehow attached themselves to the cabin he and Sam were currently occupying…and now, apparently, to them as well. "Sam...my Sam?"

She nodded, golden bangs dancing on her forehead.

"Where is he? Is he hurt?"

She turned and walked from the bar, glancing back at him in an obvious "follow-me" gesture. Date forgotten, he did so as quickly as he could. When they reached the parking lot and his black Impala, she stopped, turned, and looked at him expectantly. He was already moving around the car and climbing in. "Well, come on." He called, and she climbed through the door and took a seat next to him.

"Is he at the cabin?" He asked, gunning the engine.

But she had vanished. There was no choice--he would have to trust his instinct. He floored the accelerator and peeled out of the parking lot.

* * *

Dean took the six steps to the front porch two at a time--no easy feat with a pair of crutches under his arms and a gun in his left hand. As he opened the front door with a crash, cry alerted him to his brother's whereabouts. Horrified, he dropped the crutches and raced down the hall, grabbing the wall to help support his ankle, which cried in protest with each step. He ignored it, "Sam!" 

The older Winchester brother stopped short in the doorway, so fast he nearly fell over. Rage, more white-hot and all-consuming than he'd ever felt before, washed over him. His brother lay sprawled on the bed, struggling furiously against some unseen force.

Beside the bed was Christina. She stood stone-still, staring down at Sam, her eyes locked onto his struggling form. She seemed to be whispering something under her breath--a spell of some sort? Dean didn't know, and he didn't care. All he knew was that he had to stop her--now--and he was going to do it.

"Get _away_ from him!" He roared, raising the gun and starting across the room. The girl didn't move; she didn't even seem to hear him. Halfway to the bedside, Dean was stopped short, the gun snapping from his grasp to clatter to the floor yards away and skid to the wall. A pair of hands had caught his right arm, just above the elbow, and another had seized his left. Looking down, his eyes met two identical faces--the girl he had met at the bar and what was obviously her twin sister, dressed exactly like her.

He tried to wrench away, but it was like trying to break iron. The girls held fast, despite his ever-increasing desperate struggles. "Sam! Sammy! Leave him alone!"

* * *

Yeah, I'm one of those evil cliffhanger authors. Once in a great while. I'm sorry, I just couldn't resist! 

See you for chapter 4, and thanks again for all the wonderful reviews!


	4. Chapter 4

Okay, finally, here is the long-awaited Chapter 4. I am sufficiently ashamed of myself for leaving you all off with a cliffhanger for five weeks. That's my fault—and the fault of school. Stupid college.

Special thanks this chapter (and all future chapters) to my best friend Tracy for all of her help and her beta-ing services, which she offers freely, and I love her for it and can't thank her enough. And, really, she should have been recognized LAST chapter, but I was in such a hurry to get it out that I forgot. (hangs head) So special thanks to her, and I'm dedicating this chapter to her as well.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Sam, Dean, or Supernatural. It saddens me to say it, but it's true.

_Pileup Chapter IV_

Sam seemed to hear his voice, because his fight, too, increased, "Dean!"

"Don't!" Dean cried. "Stop!"

"She's helping him." One of the girls told him. Her grip intensified, and he had to grit his teeth to stop a cry from escaping.

"Stop!" He commanded again, ignoring her.

And, miraculously, she did. The twins and Christina disappeared, he felt the pressure holding him back vanish, and Sam sat straight up with a cry. Without hesitation, Dean flung himself across the room to his brother.

Sam was still thrashing, caught somewhere between nightmare and waking. Dean caught his arms gently, mindful of the still-tender spot that marked his run-in with Christina and her gun the night before. "Sam! Sam, can you hear me? You okay?"

His brother's eyes snapped open and he caught Dean's elbows, gripping them like a lifeline, panting hard. "Dean!" He breathed. He was shaking, gasping for air, hair drenched with sweat. He dropped his forehead to his older brother's collarbone, taking comfort in his solid, reassuring presence. Dean was alarmed and slightly panicked by this very un-Sam-like behavior. "Hey, hey! It's okay, I'm here." He said hesitantly, trying to keep his voice even and supporting, despite his own unease. "It's okay." He repeated.

Sam released a long, shaky sigh, and Dean tightened his grip reassuringly. "I'm here."

The younger brother nodded against Dean's shoulder, taking several long breaths. Dean sat still rigidly for several uncomfortable moments as Sam tried to compose himself. Finally, the youngest Winchester pulled back, but Dean didn't release him. He wasn't quite ready to yet. "I'm okay." Sam assured him hoarsely. He scrubbed the sleeve of the sweatshirt he'd worn to bed over his eyes. Dean pretended he couldn't see the tears, and Sam tried to pretend that they hadn't been there at all.

Slowly, uncertainly, Dean released his brother, "Are you sure?"

"Yeah." He kicked his feet off the bed and leaned over to rise.

"Hey, hey!" Dean caught his arm, "Take it easy, man. You look like absolute crap."

"Thanks." Sam gave him a glare. "I'm _fine_, Dean. Really."

"You don't _look _fine, Sam." His brother said truthfully. "And if you stand up and pass out, you're laying on the floor until you wake up, because I am not going to try to lift your ass onto this bed."

"I'm not going to pass out." Dean was relieved to hear the irritation in Sam's voice. It was _some _kind of a reaction, at least. A normal one. Sam rose and wobbled unsteadily for just a moment. "See?"

"Yeah, I see." Dean growled good-naturedly, "Do you know what happened?"

Sam pulled his sweat-soaked sweatshirt off his head, mussing his already-untidy hair. "I don't remember." He fibbed, avoiding the green gaze that could see through every one of his lies.

"Sam."

"It's just a dream."

"No, it wasn't." Dean, still seated on the bed, shook his head. "There's something much bigger going on here than a couple of pissed-off little kids."

"I know." Sam nodded. "They're not evil. They…they want something from us." Sam pulled a clean tee shirt over his head and stiffly ran his hands through his sweat-soaked hair.

"Like what? They're not exactly little heaven-sent angels, Sam." He said thoughtfully, rubbing the still-chilled marks on his arms where the ghost girls had caught them earlier.

"I know that."

"You having a vision moment?" There was no mocking in the older man's tone.

"No…it's just a feeling. Intuition." He leaned heavily against the wall for support.

"Hm..." Dean said thoughtfully. "Would you lie down?" He finally barked as his brother tried to push himself upright again.

"I'm—"

"And if you say you're fine again, I _will _kick your ass. Get over here and lie down."

With a huff, Sam obeyed. Dean studied his brother's pale face for a moment, and Sam avoided his gaze by closing his eyes. "Did you have fun with Sara?" He finally asked to break the uncomfortable silence.

Dean cursed, "Sara! Dammit, I forgot!" He hurried from the room to find his cell phone, the sound of his brother's exhausted laugh following him as he went. When he was safely out of Sam's sight, he took a moment to lean against the wall and try to calm himself. /What a night./

By the time he had called Sara, apologized profusely for leaving her at the bar, and hung up, Sam had fallen back to sleep. Silence reigned in the cabin—an unearthly, unsettling silence.

To ease his discomfort, Dean moved down the hall and stood in the doorway of his brother's room, leaning heavily on the doorframe and studying the twenty-two-year-old. Sam's hair was tousled, and he tossed and turned restlessly beneath the covers. Concerned, Dean limped across the room and hesitantly rested a hand on his brother's forehead. As when they were children, Dean's touch instantly reassured his brother, who stilled immediately. The older Winchester sank to the mattress next to him with an amused smile. Watching his brother visibly relax in the moonlight, he thought back over their last few days and tried to piece together the puzzle that seemed to be plaguing them.

The door creaked open, interrupting his thoughts, and he reached automatically for the gun Sam now kept leaned against the wall next to his bed. The doorway, however, remained empty. He sighed—he really was getting too jumpy.

He rose and padded across the hall to settle down in his own bed, taking the papers off of Sam's nightstand as he passed. There had to be a connection he was missing, and he wasn't going to be able to sleep until he figured it out. Fifteen minutes later, with the lights on and the papers still in his hand, he was fast asleep.

---------------------

"Would you _please_ shut _up_?" Dean roared, pounding on the wall above his head. The giggling and playful running feet that had woken him for the fourth time that night ceased momentarily, but started back up again an instant later.

With a weight-of-the-world sigh and a couple of under-the-breath mutterings about how reproduction should be a crime punishable by death, he rose and hobbled down the hall. As he reached the doorway separating the living room from the darkened hallway, something told him to turn around, that inner voice that warned him when there was danger. He knew better than to ignore that voice.

He did as it commanded, turning as quickly as his cramped quarters would allow him. He didn't see anything, but his well-trained senses told him that there was _definitely _something there.

"Oopsie…" The faint, breathy word was accompanied by a sweet giggle—definitely girlish.

"Yeah, I'll give you an oopsie, you little—" Dean muttered. He sighed and moved down the hall, "Hey, Sam, can you give me a hand with this?" He called as he approached the bathroom.

No answer.

"Sam?"

Nothing.

"Hey, Sam! Don't ignore me; I can't do this by myself!" He moved out of the tiny cubicle serving as the cabin's bathroom and across the hall, flipping on the light switch inside Sam's room. His brother was the lightest sleeper Dean had ever known—surely that crash would've woken him. He was irritated, too. Sam was supposed to be helpful…where was that insistent, incessant hovering when he needed it?

He stopped short as he realized Sam _wasn't _ignoring him; that he was, in fact, in a deep sleep. Shaking his head in disbelief, Dean turned and checked: yes, the mirror really had fallen and shattered just on the other side of his brother's flimsy bedroom wall.

"Hey, Sammy?" He said softly, concerned now. "Sam?"

He made his way across the wooden floorboards and leaned over his brother, gently shaking his unbruised shoulder, "Sam?"

The younger brother shot up, narrowly missing colliding with Dean's face. Reflexively, his left fist shot out—even with an injury, he was much stronger with his left arm—and Dean only barely managed to duck aside.

"Dean, what the hell? I almost hit you!"

"Tell me about it!" His brother panted, glaring. "What's your issue?"

"You sneak up on me in the middle of the night and scare me half to death and you want to know what _my _issue is?"

"Didn't you hear me calling you, man?" Dean raised an eyebrow. "Or the mirror falling?"

"…Huh?"

"Come on." He motioned to the doorway, "I'll show you."

He led his brother to the bathroom, and Sam's eyes widened at the smattering of glass shards scattered across its floor. "I slept through that?"

"Uh, yeah."

Sam gazed thoughtfully at the broken mirror. "You know, the other night, when Christina shot me, I thought it was pretty weird that you didn't wake up when she fired the gun…something's going on here."

Dean gave him a dumbfounded look. "You think!"

Sam cast a dark look over his shoulder and knelt on the floor. Dean attempted to join him, but Sam waved him away, "I got it."

"I'm not an _invalid_, Sam."

"I know that." The younger Winchester's voice was calm and collected, but Dean could easily hear the barely-restrained frustration. "But we can't both be on our hands and knees on this floor and avoid coming out of it looking like we've been through a war."

After a moment's thought, Dean grunted his acknowledgement and leaned against the frame. "Hey…something wrong with your head?" He asked as Sam's hand drifted, seemingly unconsciously, to his forehead.

"Huh? Oh, no. Just a headache. Probably from being woken up too fast." He shot his older brother one of his best innocent-yet-winning smiles, and Dean sighed. In lieu of a sarcastic answer, he watched his brother's movements.

Sam had always been slightly ungraceful—probably owing to the fact that, at fifteen, he'd grown almost a foot in the span of a year and a half—but tonight, his actions were even more uncoordinated than usual. Jerky, clumsy, and slow, he picked up the sharp shards one at a time and piled them in his palm. When his hand was full, he dumped it all into the shattered mirror frame and began again.

"So, this Evelyn." Sam had, apparently, had enough of his brother's concerned gaze. Overhead, a buzzing sound began. The brothers exchanged confused glances before Dean tipped his head back to study the glowing bulb in the fixture overhead. It grew brighter and brighter, then began to pulse. Sam chose to ignore it, "Do you think we'll be able to get anything from her?"

"If we find her." Dean answered, straightening slightly and wincing at the sharp blows of pain to his ribs. "I'm sure she'll be helpful. She's the only one who knows what's been going on."

There was a pause in which the flickering from the light grew brighter, faster, sharper. Dean saw his little brother wince from the assault on his already-aching head. "Well, that's some freaky wiring." Dean remarked sardonically.

"I don't think it's the wiring…" Sam commented. Just then, the bulb decided to explode, showering the room and the brothers in broken glass. The younger Winchester exhaled a huge sigh of relief. No more brightness, no more flickering. As soon as he'd gotten the glass cleaned up, he could go back to bed. Sleep. Yes, that was what he needed.

"I'll find Evelyn in the morning." Sam promised, shaking shards of lightbulb from his messy, sleep-tossed hair. Above him, he could feel Dean doing the same, and he could hear the tinkling sounds of broken glass hitting the linoleum.

Sam pulled his tee shirt over his head (the second one of the night, he mused as he did so) and dropped it to the floor. "Change your shirt before you go to bed." He reminded Dean. "I don't want to be digging glass out of your shoulders all morning."

It was too dark to see Dean's face, but Sam could feel the glare. "Yes, _mother_."

"Good." Sam piled the final bits of glass in the mirror frame. "I'll sweep in the morning. Get some sleep; I'll head to the library first thing and see what I can dig up on Evelyn."

"Behold my joy." Dean replied sarcastically, watching Sam climb slowly to his feet. "Go back to bed. You look awful." With that, he turned and limped back down the hall to his own room.

"Yeah, good night to you, too." Sam called after him. With a roll of his dark eyes, he returned to his own room, latching the door behind him with a resounding _snap_.

----------------------------------

There you have it…so so sorry this took so long, everyone. It's been crazy, getting ready for finals and taking unscheduled jaunts to New Jersey with the family. (Sighs)

I specifically left this with a semi-solid ending…which, any follower of my earlier works will know, probably means that I won't be able to update for a while. The next two weeks are finale week, finals, and the last two weeks of work for me, which means I'll be helping to train whoever is taking my place. What does this mean for all of you? Probably that you won't hear from me until the middle, perhaps the end, of May.

But thank you SO much for all of your reviews. I do intend to respond to every one I get. I really do.

Take care of yourselves!

Love to all,

Sila


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